I hear it from America, the singing, deep and long,
Everybody sings it, this is America’s song,
Not one person skips it, those that are people, anyway,
Those that aren’t singing, it’s hard for anyone to say.
You hear it from everywhere, from a distance out at sea,
From those that make the food, the steel, the homes for you and me,
The people without voices, they sing it in their heads,
The people underground, that don’t have to be dead.
The people at their tables, the people in their homes,
The people in this classroom, the people writing poems,
The people in the forest, the people cutting trees,
The people in the cornfields, the people getting wheat.
But the people in the cotton, the people without a voice,
They wait for their chances, as if they had a choice,
They hope for an ending, to the time of overwork,
They hope for an ending, to the time of all the hurt.
I hear it from America, the singing, deep and long,
Everybody sings it, this is America’s song,
Not one person skips it, those that are people, anyway,
Those that aren’t singing, it’s hard for anyone to say.
You hear it from everywhere, from a distance out at sea,
From those that make the food, the steel, the homes for you and me,
The people without voices, they sing it in their heads,
The people underground, that don’t have to be dead.
The people at their tables, the people in their homes,
The people in this classroom, the people writing poems,
The people in the forest, the people cutting trees,
The people in the cornfields, the people getting wheat.
But the people in the cotton, the people without a voice,
They wait for their chances, as if they had a choice,
They hope for an ending, to the time of overwork,
They hope for an ending, to the time of all the hurt.